


How to Make Him Fall For You in a Fortnight

by AlphaStarr



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Awkward Flirting, Canon-Typical Power Imbalances, Canon-Typical Racism, Diplomacy, Fictional Government, Fictional politics, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, M/M, Medieval Fantasy Equivalent of a Cosmopolitan Advice Article, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Relationship Advice, Romantic Comedy, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29512872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaStarr/pseuds/AlphaStarr
Summary: Hopeless in love (and hopelesslyinlove), King Dimitri believes that his cherished friend and advisor Dedue will never see him in "that way." Afraid that Dedue would feel forced to accept those feelings out of a sense of duty or obligation, Dimitri hasn't said a word on the subject, even as he approaches the third anniversary of his coronation.However, that all might change when he discovers a mysterious pamphlet that claims to contain a foolproof method for wooing one's closest friend: "How To Make Him Fall For You In A Fortnight."
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Dedue Molinaro
Comments: 7
Kudos: 28
Collections: Dimidue Big Bang 2021





	1. 3 Lone Moon, 1190

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Dimidue Big Bang](https://twitter.com/dimiduebigbang), featuring art by the inestimable [Catatune](https://twitter.com/Catatune).
> 
> This entire project has been a wild experience. I'm very grateful that the mods have been so flexible, and of course, Catatune has been such a pleasure to work with. Please check them out!
> 
> P.S. This work uses a workskin.

Hey, you! Yes, you—

I know what you're thinking: you've built up a great friendship with this guy, and now you've realized you're in love with him... but wait! You could never tell him the full extent of your feelings.

Maybe he's dropped a few hints that he could like you back, or maybe it's just wishful thinking. Perhaps you're worried that he'll never see you as anything more than "just a friend," or you're afraid that you'll ruin the close friendship that you already share. Possibly, you might even be starting to think that it's time to lay your budding hopes to rest... no matter that he's the love of your life. 

Have you been quietly resigned that you will never be able to tell him how you feel, even if you know you would be great together? Do you spend each hour that you're by his side praying that he cannot hear the thumping of your traitorous heart? Are you growing used to lying awake at night, half-tormented by that all-consuming question: does he love you, or does he love you not?

If this sounds like you, get ready to shake off those apprehensions! In this article, you'll learn how to ensure the best friend you've always been in love with sees you in a brand-new (romantic) light, results guaranteed in just fourteen days. No tricks, no gimmicks—just one foolproof method to help him realize what an attractive person you already are:

**How To**

**Make Him Fall For You**

**In a Fortnight**

In the wake of the war that had consumed the continent, the new King of unified Fódlan had spent the first several months of his reign heavily encumbered by negotiations for brokering peace; confirming old alliances; putting a stop to the numerous rebel cells founded by the fallen Emperor's more fervent followers.

It had been over half a year before his schedule and Archbishop Byleth's had allowed time for a swift coronation ceremony. While many of King Dimitri's most important allies and even some diplomats from abroad had been in attendance, it was a far cry from the celebrations of past kings—even the treaty-signings and other political tasks had been noticeably abridged.

Now, nearly three years thence, the anniversary of the Royal Coronation was beginning to approach what it had been over a decade before. Fódlan had finally reached a point where civil debates dominated its courts instead of the subtle hostilities between competing political factions that had characterized the first two years of Dimitri's reign. Taking it as a good sign of things to come, Fhirdiad castle would at last see its first truly diplomatic event and all the necessary preparations that entailed

Today, the last day before Fódlan's most important allies and diplomats were set to arrive, it seemed as if the castle itself were reaching a fever-pitch of nervous anticipation—and its king was no exception to that rule.

As he finished his meeting with the castle staff, Dimitri addressed the servants with his most sincere thanks, dismissing them all for one last evening of rest before a truly busy week of welcoming old allies, heralding diplomats from all corners of the continent, and, perhaps most importantly, proving to the world that Fhirdiad castle was yet capable of providing a reasonable degree of hospitality. Though it was already nearly half-past ten at night—and, indeed, though this meeting was meant to be the last thing on Dimitri's schedule—the numerous memo-scrolls and miscellaneous summaries that sat before him belied the true amount of work he still had yet to do.

Perhaps somewhat clumsily, Dimitri added the new piles of menus and supply receipts and guest accommodation requests to the already-ample stack of papers he had yet to review. His overburdened file-case snapped back with an audible complaint, and the documents that his pages had so carefully balanced atop it throughout the day came clattering out: scrolls rolling over loose papers, both smashing to the floor and threatening to roll or flutter away.

 _Disastrous._ Biting back a stream of curses, Dimitri knelt to pick up some of the newly-disarrayed papers from the floor, only to be interrupted by an ever-present hand that touched lightly on his arm, preventing him from taking hold of the papers.

"Please, Your Majesty," Dedue said simply, picking up a fallen scroll. "Allow me to assist you."

Glancing up, now, at his advisor and friend, Dimitri shook his head with a fond exasperation. "Still using titles, I see, even though we are both alone..."

"This is a conference chamber," Dedue replied, gathering up another fallen paper. "I should not take undue liberties with formality."

Even as he began to pile scrolls back into his file-case, Dimitri subtly cast his gaze in the direction of his friend, taking a moment to admire the cut of Dedue's formal court robes... or, to be more apt, to admire the figure Dedue cut in _fabric_ , rather than the heavy armor he had worn in war. He opened his mouth to speak but found it too dry; he licked his lips.

"I didn't particularly think you were the type," Dimitri said, a ghost of a smile turning the corner of his mouth. "However, should _Your Excellency,_ the _Chancellor of Fódlan-Duscur Diplomatic Relations_ prefer the use of titles..."

Shocked by the mere suggestion, Dedue nearly choked on the insuppressible snort of laughter that erupted from him. He protested weakly, "That is different."

"Is it, truly?" Dimitri entreated. His gaze lingered just a moment longer on the broad of Dedue's back; his posture; the nape of his neck.

Dedue stood, dusting himself off. He replied, "It is."

"I fail to understand how," Dimitri frowned, turning his gaze back to the file-case. "Please, explain."

"It is a crucial time in our history. Although Duscur is its own nation once more, the trust that once existed between the people of Fódlan and the people of Duscur..." Dedue trailed off momentarily, apparently lost in thought. He shook his head and finished, "There is still more work to do."

"Well, yes. I will be the first to admit that is true," Dimitri pressed his lips together, concern notching his brow. "Much of what the government was has been restored... the settlements and environment of Duscur, though changed, appear to be recovering, too. But much of Faerghus still clings to the cruel rumors of old, even though they were proven to be complete and utter lies; perhaps they do so to justify their own behavior these past twelve years. And, as for Duscur..."

"The majority of survivors feel... uneasy about Fódlan," Dedue admitted, unsure if merely 'uneasy' adequately described the extent of their distrust.

"I certainly cannot blame them for it. These people were violently persecuted by the very same allies they once held in regard, and maltreated in Fódlan for several years afterwards... after such a betrayal, it is no wonder they are reluctant to trust," Dimitri inhaled sharply. "I—I believe I understand, in some ways. A relationship shattered by such brutal trauma is not easily repaired. It may never be equal to what it once was."

"... it is difficult to say," Dedue replied—ambiguously, perhaps, but not thoughtlessly. He explained, "In time, that bond of trust may recover... but it will never be as it once was. For better or worse, Duscur has been changed."

Dimitri was quiet for a moment, digesting that thought. At last, he said, "Still, I can't seem to follow your logic. Why should that forbid you and I from speaking to each other as equals, regardless of title?"

"I do not want to cause any misunderstandings," Dedue answered, though Dimitri intuitively knew that couldn't be the _entire_ answer. Still, he had no time to ask further when Dedue carried on: "In any case, whether vassal or chancellor, my intentions remain the same. Please allow me to lend you my strength in pursuit of those goals."

There was an inscrutable look in his friend's eyes. Dimitri decided not to press, but merely offered, "Please, then, let me help you, too. If there is anything I can do to make your work easier, or to mend the relationship more swiftly, or even just listen to what troubles you, I—"

"You are busy with many tasks that only a king could perform," Dedue reminded him. Even so... his hand rested on Dimitri's shoulder as he leaned over to put away a few scrolls, and the loose hair that fell from his bun ghosted over the king's cheek as he added, barely above a whisper, "But I am touched that you offered... Dimitri."

A budding warmth stole over Dimitri's heart; it bloomed, coloring Dimitri's cheeks.

"Of—of course," Dimitri stammered back, all his eloquence failing him. He attempted to recover, "I truly mean it, though... if you have any concerns, please don't hesitate to express them to me!"

"I understand," Dedue replied, backing away. He gave a slight smile, "Do not worry that I will neglect the duties of a chancellor. I will promptly bring forth any legislative concerns requiring your attention."

"You will make for an excellent chancellor, Dedue. I never doubted that you would," Dimitri replied, faintly disappointed—though disappointed in _what_ , he couldn't quite tell. He started again, "Dedue..."

"It is getting late, Your Majesty," Dedue responded, smoothly balancing the overburdened file-case in his arms. "Please allow me to escort you back to your rooms... you should not walk alone at night."

Such protective measures were unnecessary, now—Dimitri felt certain that they _both_ knew it. The majority of threats to Dimitri's personal safety had faded after the end of the war; certainly, Dedue wouldn't exactly be optimally prepared if an altercation _were_ to occur, unarmed save for the very minimum of ornamental court plate.

He should tell him that things were safer now in this new time of peace; such services were no longer be required of him, if Dedue felt they ever _had been_. He should surrender Dedue's time back unto himself, liberating him from the constraints of duty. He should let Dedue take his leave, whether it be to review for tomorrow or to attend to his hobbies or to simply _rest_ for one final evening before they were to enter several weeks of diplomacy and treatises and, more than likely, some variety of political maneuvering.

He _should_ have, but this is what Dimitri answered instead: "If you would like to walk with me, I wouldn't mind some company."

"I would like to," Dedue stated simply.

Still, those words set something alight in Dimitri's chest; they tugged tightly at the yearning he'd tried to keep buried therein. He couldn't tear his gaze away from Dedue's face in that moment, utterly entranced by the small hint of a smile that turned the corners of his lips; the soft shift in his voice that belied an otherwise immutable expression in the low light of the oil-lamp.

Dimitri's mouth went dry. It seemed these feelings had proven too difficult to merely ignore.

* * *

Almost as soon as Dimitri was behind the locked and bolted door of his private quarters, he flumphed face-first onto his sitting-room sofa. He almost screamed into the nearest throw-pillow, restraining himself solely through the thought that the guards standing watch outside his quarters would probably break down his door to ensure he wasn't in the process of being assassinated. 

At last, he asked himself: _What the hell was that, Dimitri? "I wouldn't mind some company?"_

Dimitri emitted an audible groan. To be perfectly fair, it wasn't really the idea of _company_ that was inherently the issue here. While it was certainly embarrassing that he'd rendered his feelings mortifyingly obvious, that wasn't really the issue, either.

The problem was that letting Dedue walk him back to his quarters often led to Dedue helping him carry in his papers, which often led to Dedue lighting his fireplace for him, which (more often than not) led to Dedue staying on late into the night and poring over paperwork instead of taking a well-deserved rest. Dimitri was never _quite_ certain whether Dedue did those things because he _wanted to_ , or because a misplaced sense of duty made him feel like he _had to_.

That was the crux of the matter: duty.

Once upon a time, Dimitri had believed that he and Dedue would be able to stand on equal footing after Duscur's independence was restored. Not that he'd been naïve enough to think that a public change of heart would be enacted overnight, but that in their private lives, Dedue would be able to stand and look at him: not as a vassal entreats his liege, but as man looks upon any other man.

Perhaps Dimitri had nursed some subconscious hope that he would be able to tell Dedue of how deeply his feelings ran, someday when that change occurred. Now, however, he was beginning to think more about the years they'd spent entrenched in the inherent inequality that stood between a commoner and a prince; now, he was beginning to worry that the societal expectations and obligations had taken root somewhere deep within Dedue's psyche. Perhaps the gulf of power disparity interposed between them seemed insurmountable; perhaps Dedue still felt bound by the life-debt he'd already repaid many times over.

Even now—with the late evening escorts, the fire-kindling—Dimitri wasn't sure what to make of it. It was true enough that Dedue had claimed to enjoy such simple tasks; that he didn't suddenly feel himself above them just because he'd acquired a fancy title and all of the courtly powers that came with it. But then, had Dedue not also repeatedly emphasized the idea that vassalage and chancellorship different only in name: unified in the singular task of serving a king?

It was that uncertainty that Dimitri most feared. Whether Dedue undertook those tasks of his own volition or because he'd felt obligated to, the mere _possibility_ that it could be the latter stayed his traitorous tongue any time he thought that maybe, today could be the day he finally shed all pretense and told Dedue just how much he was loved—just how much Dimitri loved him.

No. How could he say anything when there was still a chance that same disparity might pressure Dedue into accepting such feelings, even if he were ambivalent or opposed to them? What kind of terrible friend—what kind of terrible _person—_ would knowingly place the one they love most in such a difficult position?

(Unbidden, images of Dimitri's father, his stepmother came to mind. Dimitri himself had been too young to comprehend at the time, but King Lambert's earnest admiration of that ex-noble refugee in exile, even as she was hiding from the rest of the world—the two times she had rejected his proposals before agreeing to marriage—the faint look of relief she'd often worn when Cornelia, or even Dimitri himself, came to prevent her and the King from having to converse alone—he was realizing, now, that something _wasn't quite right_ even before the full force of Cornelia's manipulations came into play.)

 _Disastrous_ , Dimitri thought. It wasn't enough to genuinely offer Dedue the option turning down his feelings... not if Dedue himself believed that it was insupportable to answer any way but the affirmative. If only there was some way to be certain, _absolutely certain_ , that Dedue's reply would be free of the constraints and obligations that characterized any form of duty...

Dimitri sighed, rolling over and throwing an arm over his eyes. His off hand, however, flailed out—hitting the coffee-table on which his documents had been precariously piled, sending them scattering to the floor once more.

"Curses," Dimitri muttered, hastening to gather the scrolls before they could roll towards the fire.

As he picked up the scrolls and memos, his fingers at last alighted on a slim pamphlet trapped underneath his coffee-table—not unlike the insert of a newspaper or magazine. Unlike the publicly-distributed announcement pamphlets that he typically saw in his work-related reading pile, however, this one used colored ink and seemed to be printed on somewhat better paper than most newspaper inserts.

Dimitri's first thought, naturally, was that someone must have misplaced an illustrated article from an elaborate weaponry-ordering catalog, or perhaps one of the fashion-plate magazines that were increasingly popular in court. His next thought was to see if there was any hint as to who it belonged to, so he pulled it out from where it had fallen and lifted it into the firelight, tilting his head slightly in bemusement as he read the cover page.

"How to make him fall for you in a fortnight," Dimitri read aloud. He frowned and read the subtitle, too, just to be sure: "Fourteen tips for wooing your best friend, from 'should you?' to the how-tos."

Dimitri opened the leaflet, quickly skimming the first page—looking for a scrap of the owner's handwriting in an annotation, he told himself, not for the purpose of actually reading the text. Still... it _was_ tempting...

**Have you been quietly resigned that you will never be able to tell him how you feel, even if you know you would be great together?**

_Yes_ , Dimitri thought, stunned that the article's author seemed to know exactly what he had himself been thinking not five minutes ago.

**Do you spend each hour that you're by his side praying that he cannot hear the thumping of your traitorous heart?**

Unfortunately, yes. Dimitri felt his cheeks grow warm once more as he remembered the phenomenally awkward things he'd said to Dedue as recently as that evening, too deeply flustered to adequately cover up his own feelings. All he could do now was hope that Dedue hadn't noticed.

**Are you growing used to lying awake at night, half-tormented by that all-consuming question: does he love you, or does he love you not?**

_Yes!_ Dimitri nearly dropped the pamphlet in surprise—that was _it_ ; that was really it. Everything that Dimitri had worried about or hesitated over boiled down to that one question: if Dimitri were to confess his feelings to the man he loved, would he be able to answer honestly, even if he was unhappy about it? Would he give his answer out of genuine love or because of the unbearable pressure of obligation?

Was it yet too much to hope that Dedue could come to see him as a friend, an equal, potentially a lover? Did he, already?

Dimitri bit his lower lip, debating the merits of taking advice from an anonymous magazine article. But, then again, surely it couldn't be worse than the dagger incident? Surely it couldn't be worse than the time he'd taken advice from Sylvain and ended up hiding hunched up in a wardrobe for the better part of an hour?

"It... couldn't hurt to just _read it_ , right?" Dimitri asked himself, as if by asking for permission aloud, he could be excused in permitting himself a few moments of frivolousness.

A pile of more important documents waited urgently in his file-case: treatise terms to review, summaries of legislative rebuttals, schedules for diplomatic meetings. Deep in his heart, however, Dimitri knew that his curiosity had been too sorely tempted—it was futile to resist. There would be no turning back from this moment, he thought. There would be no turning back once the knowledge held within this article had been seared into his mind.

He promptly thumbed the leaflet back open and started to read.


	2. 4 Lone Moon, 1190

**Day 1: Determine if romance is the right choice for you.**

Before deciding whether or not to pursue the rest of this method, seriously consider the two most important factors in deciding whether or not to pursue your feelings: Is it love? Even if it is, will you risk the friendship if romance doesn't work out? Keep in mind that this list is for _making_ him fall for you, not _keeping_ him in love with you! If ending a romantic relationship would seriously jeopardize your ability to remain friends afterwards, it may be worth reconsidering. Make a list of pros and cons, and carefully weigh your options.

You may also want to consider whether it's better to act now or put things off until you're both better equipped to enter a relationship— sometimes, even if you know for sure that he's Mr. Right, it just isn't the right _time_. Read through this list in full, today. If anything sounds like something you aren't ready for just yet, then that's a sign that you might want to hold off on using this method.

Perhaps it was just a trick of the light, Dedue thought, but it seemed that Dimitri was seriously ruminating on something this morning—something in the way he stared out towards the city gates in anticipation of their arriving guests, perhaps. The way he ran his thumb over the seam in his own gloves? The tension in his lips? It was indiscernible as to what, exactly, the difference could be, but something about him seemed more pensive today.

But so much so that it was cause for concern? Dedue debated that question for a moment, and concluded: _no_. Anyone would be distracted having to face the prospect of international diplomatic visitors, especially when the political climate of Faerghus' court had been tumultuous enough to postpone the very event by two years. Some of Dimitri's early reforms and policies for post-wartime recovery had been met with so much controversy that there'd been talk of legislative stalls and rampant filibustering; nobles refusing to comply with orders; threats of a soft-coup. Given that context, it would be more worrisome if he were _less_ thoughtful.

It _could_ be more worrisome... but when it came to Dimitri, Dedue was a habitual worrier.

"Your Majesty," he said, studying his king for any telltale sign of fatigue. "You seem preoccupied this morning."

"Ah—" Dimitri startled, his gaze snapping away from its watch of the road. "Do I?"

"Yes," Dedue replied. The tilt of Dimitri's head; the shifting of his shoulders... there was only one possible conjecture: "Did you wake early?"

"I only wished to finish the reading I never got around to last night," Dimitri shook his head. "I'm behind enough as it is..."

There was something about the stiffness of that gesture; Dedue's brows instantly furrowed in concern. He revised his question: "Your Majesty... did you sleep?"

Dimitri's "Yes!" seemed just a little _too_ indignant.

Dedue pressed his lips together and solidly met Dimitri's gaze. "Are you sure?"

"Well—sort of. I _tried_ ," Dimitri reluctantly admitted. "I was... perhaps a bit too excited to do more than doze off."

That seemed to ring a little more true. Dedue nodded, "The next time you are unable to sleep, please send for me."

"I don't wish to trouble you. That you have kept me company so many times in the past, even at such odd hours of the night..." Dimitri's expression softened, and the earnest warmth of his tone betrayed him. "Well. One of us should be allowed to sleep, do you not think?"

His emotions were evident, then, to anyone who knew Dimitri as well as Dedue did—even the noxious court conventions of Fhridiad's political scene failed to stop him from continuing to wear his heart on his sleeve. Dedue swallowed thickly, attempting to push down the knot of fondness that seemed to settle in his throat; he tried to quell the tenderness that lanced through his very soul. Naught else could have so deeply affected him, save the cutting edge of Areadbhar itself.

But there was no other choice save to conceal his heart—and Dimitri's, too, as much as he possibly could. Not when His Majesty's political standing among the nobility was in so precarious a place. Not when Duscur's self-governance yet relied so wholly on keeping power out of the hands of nobles who would just as soon re-seize the land for their own benefit.

Did he dare risk anything closer, when even their friendship had sparked cruel rumors and accusations of favoritism? No. It would be ruinous for the two things that Dedue cared for most deeply of all: his beloved friend Dimitri, and the yet-fragile remnants of Duscur that they had fought to nurse back to health. Faced with Dimitri— _his King_ —and such affectionate, tender words, there was only one thing he could do.

"My title may have changed, but my purpose remains the same," Dedue bowed, breaking their eye contact. "If you are feeling fatigued, Your Majesty, I will be glad to take care of anything you can delegate elsewhere."

This time, he was the one unwilling to meet Dimitri's gaze.

* * *

By tradition, the king broke his fast with the capitol's earliest arrivals, an eclectic array of diplomatic officers. There were, as expected, some of the old Faerghan nobles returning anew from their estates, but there were many who had traveled in from further afield, seeking an extra day or two to recuperate from their travels before the events began in full.

Dedue studied the room, half out of curiosity and half out of habit, carefully assessing the potential ~~threats towards~~ political opponents of His Majesty—beginning to formulate his own plan of action, to consider how best to protect Dimitri with _words_ in lieu of weapons. In this manner, a Chancellor was truly no different from a knight or vassal; in this way, thought Dedue with a note of satisfaction, he could forge himself into Dimitri's shield in peacetime as well as war.

( _For duty_ , he told himself—not the self-serving ache to be close, closer above all else.)

Of their closest schoolmates and wartime allies, none would ever attempt to disempower the very king and friend they had fought to return to the throne. Whatever political friction might yet exist among their houses and factions, the bonds of loyalty would not break easily. Present here were several of those he simply could not conceive of as political foes: Sylvain, who had wintered in Fhirdiad this year; Annette and Gustave, who had just returned from visiting the Dominic Barony; Ashe, the present Lord Gaspard, who had come on the request of the notedly less-popular Count Rowe.

After a more formal greeting to his king, Ashe had practically bounded up to Dedue with a grin and a cheerful hello; while Gustave was as formal as he'd ever been, Annette had eagerly hugged each of them in turn. And as for Sylvain...

"Morning, Chancellor Molinaro," he sidled up to Dedue with a wink, taking the seat by his side. "Hey, uh, if it's not too much trouble, do you mind pretending like we're discussing matters of grave importance?"

"I don't mind," Dedue replied simply. "I was only thinking of today's schedule."

"Okay, sure," Sylvain replied gamely. "Let's talk scheduling."

That was a sure enough sign that he was trying to avoid getting pulled into certain political dealings—political marriage, more likely than not—but Dedue certainly had no complaints. It was infinitely better than the cold silence of the Faerghus noble seated on his other side, who seemed determined to pretend he didn't exist.

(Dedue was well aware that his appointment to the court had been unpopular among its existing members; indeed, he knew the resentment they fostered towards the need for Fódlan-Duscur diplomatic relations at all. However he might try to avoid reading into it, it was abundantly clear that exonerating Duscur of King Lambert's assassination had done little to address Fódlan's existing enmity.)

"The professor—" Dedue began. He corrected himself, "The Archbishop will be delayed a few days."

"Yeah. What a bummer, right?" Sylvain shook his head. "But at the same time, I get why. I mean, it's not every year that the Officer's Academy re-opens, so it's reasonable that they'd want to stick around for a week or two."

The professor—the Archbishop, really—had expressed such strong support for Dimitri's reign that that they had almost singlehandedly quelled the threat of that rumored soft-coup; they were perhaps Dimitri's staunchest ally save Dedue himself. In these circumstances, there was no doubt that their professor would be a welcome addition to the gathering... for reasons of personal friendship and politics both. He acknowledged, "They would be here if they could."

"Still," Sylvain continued. "When they arrive, I'd be shocked if Mercie didn't tag along, both of them coming from the monastery and everything. It'll be like a class reunion... that'll be something to look forward to for sure."

"Yes. I look forward to it as well," replied Dedue with a deep nod. And it was true: he _trusted_ the former Blue Lions, those who had bled and fought beside their king, even at the peak of his wartime struggles and the depths of his despair.

More worrisome were those international diplomats, already disinclined to trust the tensions that had characterized their dealings with Fódlan for an age, perhaps only further abraded in the wake of the War of Unification.

At that thought, Dedue pursed his lips for a moment, waiting for Sylvain to finish chewing on a bite of bread. Then, he asked, "Do you remember the name of the diplomat from Brigid?"

Sylvain tilted his head to the side, looking several seats down the table past Dedue at the severe-faced Brigidian man, tattooed with his military ranking and heavily scarred. "I'm not really sure. She sends a different person every time... and I'm pretty sure he's not Ansley Macbaird, since our correspondence said she was infantry. See, the knot-styled stripe on his arm—I'm pretty sure that's their naval insignia."

Though Brigid seemed to have made some diplomatic effort, they'd failed to communicate any last-minute changes to the diplomatic party in advance, relying solely on a letter borne by the diplomat himself. While Dimitri had taken the change of plans in stride, it was abundantly clear that their treaty with Queen Petra yet maintained a cool, distanced civility. Since her reluctant retreat from the front lines of battle after her wounds at Gronder Field, Brigid had rallied to support the Empire through supply transport and waterway blockades. Its present representative seemed singularly unimpressed by their former allies' vanquisher.

"... I will have to ask His Majesty," Dedue reluctantly agreed. "I do not think we have met before."

"Hey, if we run into each other again, I'd appreciate it if you could let me know. I think I'm going to be discussing northwestern trade routes with him tomorrow," Sylvain shook his head. "I'd ask His Majesty myself, but I'll be tied up all day with Prince Khalid. Something about tourism in Derdriu."

Yes: in contrast to Brigid's stranger, Almyra had sent a familiar face... if under a somewhat less familiar name. Claude von Riegan—or rather, _Prince Khalid_ , heir to Almyra's throne—seemed to think it was an amusing game to acknowledge his Fódlani alias with a wink and a nudge, even as he concealed the slight lilt of his step: the last echo of a particularly gruesome wound from Gronder.

He and Annette seemed engrossed in a particularly involved conversation on the opposite side of the table, but the familiarity of their shared school days didn't especially bring Dedue any comfort. Claude had been the type of person who used whatever leverage he could grasp, and Dedue strongly doubted that Prince Khalid was _that_ significantly different. While it was true that Claude's plans had secured them a victory in Derdriu and ultimately helped win the war, that same assistance placed Dimitri in Prince Khalid's political debt... and if Dedue could tell, there was no doubt that the Almyran Prince could, too.

His concerns, however, were interrupted by Sylvain nudging him with a wayward elbow and a hushed exclamation, "Don't look now, but I need to know. The gorgeous lady in the green scarf... that's gotta be Duscur's famous beauty, Samarra Shaï, right?"

" _Senator_ Shaï," Dedue answered, casting a vaguely uncomfortable glance to where she sat beside King Dimitri himself. "She was elected to be the presiding chairwoman of Duscur's senate."

It was with mixed feelings that he looked towards the first councilwoman to preside over Duscur since the Tragedy over twelve years ago... well. Dedue had enough personal experience with that particular set of grievances; he could not blame her for looking towards Fódlan with some trepidation. The nation's wounds still blistered from its near-annihilation, to say nothing of the decade of injustices that followed. As the king who had removed House Kleiman from power and returned Duscur to its own rule, Dimitri had the nation's reluctant support, for now... but only its most questioning, most cautious trust.

"Senator _and_ presiding chair, huh?" Sylvain commented, tilting his head to study her a little more. "I gotta say, I only know about her from stuff I heard during the war... y'know, tales about the lovely lady renegade who led the Duscur Liberation Movement against Kleiman operations, especially during Cornelia's rule. Even then, I'm not sure how much of it was real and how much of it was just rumor."

"Enough of it," Dedue replied. Considering that a branch of the Duscur Liberation Movement was responsible for saving his own life after he'd helped Dimitri escape execution, he could hardly be mistaken: "Had she not disrupted Kleiman's attempts to send metalworking materials to Fhirdiad... we likely would have faced weapons of forged Duscur silver when His Majesty moved to retake the capitol."

"That's reason enough for me to be grateful," Sylvain shrugged. He glanced back in her direction, not even bothering to hide it anymore. "Hey, Dedue, as the Chancellor in charge of diplomacy with Duscur, you'd have to know the Senator pretty well, right? Is she single?"

Dedue might have laughed if he wasn't so certain that _those kinds_ of diplomatic relations ran the risk of deepening the divide between their two nations even further. Even the mere rumor that the Margrave's heir was closely involved with Duscur's presiding chairwoman could leave a lasting impact on the tenuous trust that hung delicately in balance: the court's reaction to Dedue's own appointment as chancellor had taught him that much, at least.

So instead, he simply shook his head and replied, "I don't think you're her type, Lord Gautier."

"You aren't pulling any punches, are you? Ouch," Sylvain sighed. Still, he seemed to recover from the rebuke quickly enough: "That's all right; I guess not everyone appreciates a handsome redhead. My parents were still looking into marrying me out to one of the old Leicester or Adrestian houses, anyways... something about diversifying our political ties."

Dedue suppressed a wince. "That is _more_ worrisome."

The leaders of provinces formerly under Leicester or Adrestian rule were dubiously trustworthy members of the court, though that was hardly unexpected: too many houses still acted solely in the interest of maintaining their own power, regardless of whether they answered to a King or Emperor or Archduke. Shockingly few houses seemed to care about the leader they served, so long as they themselves maintained a certain level of luxury and influence.

However dubious their motives, though, those politicians were too poorly organized on the whole to be of any concentrated political threat; they were a scattershot of conflicting wills and wishes as likely to squabble between themselves as to oppose their current king. In Fódlan's new collective court, their interests clashed more often than not, old Alliance and Empire politics chaotically blending with the new as political alliances formed and broke in their own post-war battle for power.

No: most treacherous of all were the collection of diplomats from the old houses of Faerghus itself, the myriad-faced hydra of nobles from central and Western districts—those who had almost instantly followed Cornelia's lead in capitulating to the Empire, only to instantaneously swear allegiance to Dimitri as soon as they caught wind of his successful march on Fhirdiad.

Here were those who had vocally advocated to leave House Kleiman in power, even after it came forth that they were responsible for assassinating King Lambert; here were those who continued to press Dimitri to take the cost of rebuilding Fódlan from territories Faerghus had annexed outside itself. Here were those who fanned the flames of rumors that Dimitri was disproportionately taxing his own citizens to rebuild places that they would never see; that he had returned Duscur to its citizens at the cost of impoverishing his own; that all of it was because the King had naïvely placed his trust in a man of Duscur with subtle, insidious designs towards vengeance on Faerghus.

(Here were those who had pointed to Dedue as a weak point in Dimitri's otherwise sterling reputation, who so often refused to acknowledge his presence in court at all. Here were those who rendered it impossible to so much as think of anything closer than the all-endangering friendship that existed between them already.)

"Yikes," said Sylvain, catching the way Dedue's brow only furrowed deeper as he thought. He tried to joke, "I didn't know you were _that_ worried about my marriage prospects. Something on your mind, Dedue?"

"Politics are complicated," Dedue answered simply. He crossed his arms and added decisively, "Please avoid marrying for politics."

Sylvain laughed, lifting his glass. "I'll drink to that, Chancellor," he replied. "Ah, hey—you'll be meeting with the lovely Senator Shaï today, won't you? All romance aside, she should know I'll be directing the collection and transportation of supplies for rebuilding Duscur this year. I'd appreciate it if you could put in a good word for me."

Dedue nodded silently, lifting his own glass back—trying, in turn, to keep his own thoughts from straying to the way Dimitri's eyes lingered on him from far across the table, though more than twenty people sat between them. When it came to matters of friendship (and perhaps other kinds of love), he knew that nothing could be more constant than Dimitri's heart, except for perhaps his own. It was the world around them that forbade even the slightest gesture that suggested more than _this_ —that indeed forbade even this extent of cherished closeness.

He allowed himself to make eye contact with his King, promising himself that he would give himself only a second to bask in that too-blue gaze. But in that moment, Dedue was already doomed: he couldn't bring himself to look away.

* * *

Dedue met with Duscur's presiding chairwoman in a court official's study— _his_ study, according to the sign embossed on the door, though it felt somewhat surreal for him to lay claim to it. An even stranger thought, his _guards_ —members of Dimitri's own King of Lions Corps—stood just outside the door, doubtlessly introducing themselves to Senator Shaï's own security detail.

There were times where being His Majesty's Chancellor was almost just like being His Highness' vassal. This was not one of those times.

"Nice office," Samarra commented, glancing up and down the room and unabashedly evaluating it. She stopped before the sole object of décor, presently occupying the space left of the fireplace. "I'm surprised you kept this... and for decoration, of all things."

Dedue stood beside her, gazing at the suit of armor that had served him well throughout the war... perhaps half-wishing that he were still wearing it. It felt profoundly unusual to stand outside that armor and look towards it, as if he were watching himself in the third person: inscrutable, unmoving, standing patient watch with a silver axe resting between a pair of gauntlets.

He said, "It is a fine work of Duscur craftsmanship... and a gift from a group I respect deeply. I am grateful to have received it."

"Yes, I know. You only mentioned it a thousand times," Samarra laughed and crossed her arms. "And you're still welcome, by the way, for the thousandth time. But I told you, you know, we gave it to you to hide it—not so you could place it on a model and display it like a museum piece in Fhirdiad Castle."

"I won't believe that," Dedue disagreed. "I do not think Beren forged this silverwork to hide it."

"I ordered him to forge the silverwork to hide the silver," Samarra gestured vaguely to the armor, as if expecting it to agree with her. "You know. Because we didn't have the manpower to send it back to Duscur? The silver that my subordinates stole back from Kleiman's caravan, when they stole it from Duscur with the intent to sell it to the Faerghus Kingdom—"

"The Faerghus Dukedom," Dedue corrected.

"The Kingdom, the Dukedom... what difference does it make? Faerghus is Faerghus," Samarra belligerently flicked the tassel of her green scarf over her shoulder. "They didn't suddenly _start_ stripping Duscur of its ore reserves as soon as Prince Charming disappeared. If you take Ishmael at his word, they were raring to expand into Duscur decades before either of us was born. Some think they took advantage of the first excuse they had to destroy Duscur's people and annex its land... that they were only waiting for a chance to blame us for breaking the treaty first, so that their church wouldn't admonish them for it."

"You don't believe that," Dedue patiently replied.

"No, I don't believe they were always like that... they probably never thought about it until their thirst for territory overtook their thirst for the world outside. The arrangement was very practical for many generations—Faerghus' military protected us, and in exchange, Duscur sailors brought in goods from all the faraway places their Fódlan church forbade them from going. Not sure how that'll play out, now that the new church leader seems willing to loosen the borders, but..." Samarra shrugged, leaving the end of her sentence up to interpretation. "All I'm saying is that this armor maybe isn't something you want to be displaying so casually. The ore it's made out of was stolen twice, you know."

"And given freely once," Dedue answered. "And used, many times, to shield the way to Duscur's independence."

"Ah—there's no use arguing with you. I suppose you'll try to tell me it's actually considered respectable to have deprived the King's enemies of military supplies," Samarra tisked.

"It is," Dedue shook his head. "Even if you did not intend to do so."

"Even if I meant to return it to Duscur—to destroy it, if I had to, in order to stop Faerghus from benefitting from the fruits of Duscur's land and its people's labor?" Samarra challenged. "Even if I would have done the same to the Kingdom years before, if only I were old enough to fight and lead?"

Dedue frowned at that, recalling all that Dimitri had said about the people of old Faerghus territories. The way they cleaved yet to rumors, even though Duscur had been exonerated of crimes now for nearly four years—that even in the beginning, the word of a prince and eyewitness could not dissuade them from believing that the people of Duscur had betrayed their allies.

There was a part of Faerghus that had relished in the conquest of Duscur and the influx of wealth stolen from its people... that had, indeed, perhaps wished for it for generations. They were the same ones who protested reparations even now, as if a slight redistribution of taxes might destroy all their own efforts to rebuild.

"You are right, in some ways... the Dukedom or the Kingdom, Faerghus was Faerghus. Faerghus is _still_ Faerghus," Dedue pressed his lips together, ruminating on that for a moment. Then, he smiled, "But His Majesty—the Prince, the King—Dimitri is something else."

"If you follow him so willingly, I suppose he has to be," Samarra replied, thinking deeply. She shook her head wryly, "Still letting your romantic attraction to Prince Charming dictate your life, I see. I suppose it's fortunate enough that it worked out in the end... but I still say it would have been better for you to stick with us."

Dedue frowned back. "Please do not joke about such things."

To her credit, Samarra appeared to be genuinely confused. "What things? It's not like the Liberation Movement is active anymore, now that Duscur's on the road to independence again—what, do you think I'm asking you to leave Fódlan _now_ , when you're here on the business of maintaining peace?"

"Please do not suggest that I... have inappropriate feelings regarding His Majesty," Dedue clarified at a mumble, an uncomfortable heat creeping up the back of his neck. "It is improper."

"Oh, that," Samarra paused, turning her head to the side. "... do they actually buy that excuse here? Or are they deliberately ignoring how obvious you're being about it?"

Dedue pursed his lips, unsure whether it was worth it to divulge that the nobles of Faerghan houses tried to ignore his existence in general... that they often pretended he wasn't even present at councils and debates, paying attention to his behavior only when it suited them to criticize it.

At last, he said, "Please do not _suggest_ it. It is bad for the peace—some say that I am conspiring with Duscur to wrongfully influence His Majesty."

"... ah," Samarra said, her headstrong persona suddenly undercut by her faltering tone. "It's true, then. They still think we're regicidal snakes with plans to sink a fang into their king."

"Not murderous," Dedue admitted. "But underhanded. More... discreet. Subtle."

"Well... what a mistake the people of Duscur seem to have made. Electing a self-professed rebel, conspiracist, and thief to Senate Chair... when that's exactly what Faerghus expects from us," Samarra crossed her arms, addressing him with an ironic, strained smile. "I suppose turnabout is fair play. Even if your king fulfilled his promise to return Duscur to the people of Duscur, there's a part of me that still believes everything they told us in the capitol about the Faerghus barbarians—monomaniacal, rabid brigands who think of nothing but war. Those who would murder children and the elderly on a mere _impulse_ , without so much as a second thought."

Dedue's jaw tightened. At those accusations, he made no protest: he'd seen their blades pursuing his sisters—cutting him off as he tried to follow his parents and his youngest brother—bearing down on him with the intent to end his life. Certainly, if not for Dimitri, they would have succeeded. Against such utter annihilation, there was no defense.

"They did not know Duscur was innocent," he answered measuredly, attempting to quell the flames seared irrevocably into his own memories.

"They aren't the ones who had to pay the price," Samarra countered. Then, she sighed, "You're the last person who needs to be reminded of that."

Dedue seemed to measure that statement for a moment—to weigh it in his mind, testing it for balance like he would handle a new axe.

"The new director of supply transport asked me to mention him to you," Dedue finally said. "You will meet him tomorrow, to discuss moving material reparations into Duscur. Lord Gautier, Sylvain, is a good person—we were brothers-in-arms during the war. He never believed Duscur betrayed King Lambert's trust... and I have never known him to act with prejudice towards those of Duscur blood."

"You know, I don't understand your logic sometimes, Dedue," Samarra frowned. "You talk about your king, and now there's your director friend. But you cannot tell me that these are the majority of those who once lived in Faerghus—I know they are not, or else the razing of Duscur's communities never would have happened!"

"No," replied Dedue. He glanced off towards his armor for a moment, polished brighter than it ever gleamed in the bloodied flush of battle or fog of war. He said, "You should speak to Sylvain. For business. But if you have free time, I'd like to introduce you to the Captain of His Majesty's Pegasus Knights."

"Another paragon of Faerghus flesh?" Samarra commented flagrantly. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were conspiring with the king to persuade me that nobody in Faerghus was actually on-board with committing genocide... that they were all manipulated into doing it against their own will. Planning to pass it all off on a secret society of hidden interlopers, perhaps?"

"No... I will not deny that there are those in Faerghus who believed in Duscur's destruction," Dedue answered, stolidly ignoring the bizarre twist in her humor. "And I cannot deny that there are those in Duscur who wished to destroy Faerghus—who _would have_ , if they'd had the resources."

"As long as we're clear on that," replied Samarra, a note of steel in her voice. "Zayd... I'm still not sure how you convinced him—and even got some of his men to form a Heavy Soldiers' battalion under your command—"

"He was reluctant, too," Dedue replied, wisely not mentioning that Samarra's foremost general and second-in-command had actually accused him of _selling his soul for Faerghus_. "Minds can change. So can nations."

"I'm the kind of person who cannot believe until I see it for myself," Samarra tisked and shook her head. "You are a trustworthy man enough, but Zayd was right about one thing... with or without your king, you're prone to clinging to some very foolish ideals."

"I'd like you to meet Captain Galatea," Dedue repeated without further explanation, more firmly this time. "I believe you will both find the discussion valuable. We should find time in our schedules."

"Fine, fine, I'll play your Fódlan politics," Samarra withdrew a schedule-book from her skirts, followed by the pamphlet that detailed her existing appointments for the next two weeks.

"Fódlan diplomacy," Dedue asserted.

Samarra pinned him with an odd look. "Is there a difference?"

The question gave him a moment's pause; it was a combination Dedue had never considered before. Diplomacy had seemed to him a matter of fostering goodwill—and politics, the convoluted art of manipulating the lack thereof. In a sense, perhaps, they were two sides of the same coin in that Dedue felt suited for neither: not for the first time, he found himself wondering why Dimitri had sought to alter his vassalage into a chancellorship. The empty armor tempted him from across the room.

But he glanced at Samarra—no, _Senator Shaï_ , the leader of a newly-independent nation of Duscur—and knew, in that instant, that there was yet greater work to be done before the two nations could yet again achieve a mutual peace, much less a mutual rapport. Here was the work that combined the hope to see his homeland thrive again with the deep, self-defining loyalty he'd fostered for Dimitri, carefully balanced on a tentative precipice of trust. Here it was, mired in the treacherous, ever-shifting landscape of Fódlan's new court.

He would not let Dimitri's faith in him be misplaced, nor could he have sooner eschewed his duty to Duscur, the childhood homeland he still loved. Not now, when he yet fought to resist surrender, surrender to the heart that beat beneath his own breast—the selfsame surrender that might yet damn the lone, fragile seedling of tolerance he had managed to foster thus far. Its growth was too new: was there time to spare in entertaining such selfish thoughts?

Dedue swallowed back the surge of emotion that threatened to knot his throat. Politics, he reminded himself—yes, politics and diplomacy.

"Perhaps," he said. "There might be."


	3. 5 Lone Moon, 1190

**Day 2: Assess the situation.**

Be honest with yourself: do you actually have a chance?

In other words, if he's already in a dedicated, fulfilling relationship, please seriously reconsider. If he's told you about someone else he likes, that might be a sign that he considers you a "safe" confidante with no chance of getting involved in his love life. You've probably got a significant challenge ahead of you.

But if he signals to you that he's single, that might be a subconscious gesture suggesting that he's already interested... and maybe just doesn't know it yet! If he offers frequent friendly contact—think brushing arms and hugs!—and he responds positively to little flirty gestures, like making eye contact and teasing, things are looking up!

If you can't seem to get a read on his feelings no matter how much you try, you can also ask a mutual friend, ideally someone close to him. (Some risk involved*.)

* Note that, by doing this, you run the risk that this mutual friend might inform the guy you love that you've asked about his interest. This can potentially reveal your feelings to him before either of you are ready, so it's best to save this technique as a last resort.

If Dimitri had to be perfectly honest, he wasn't sure how much Day Two of the method actually differed from Day One. Certainly, it was much less introspective, much less involved with the nature of love and feeling itself—but still, he couldn't help but think them alike.

Part of the issue was, perhaps, that Dimitri actually hadn't had much time to think at all: he'd spent the previous day enmeshed in greeting visitors from every corner of the continent and abroad, addressing any last-minute issues that came up in with new suggestions for extant trade agreements, new zoning laws regarding certain areas of Fodlan's borders, and even a single false alarm of a security breach. _That_ , at least, had only turned out to be a new potato merchant who couldn't find the kitchen-side entrance to the castle.

Whatever scant breaktime he had scheduled was consumed largely by another issue that had come up early in the day: the Queen of Brigid had once again sent a different diplomat to Faerghus' court. Fortunately, he arrived with a letter that cited Ahab Macallister as the nation's foremost expert on waterway navigation, which was at least somewhat more of an explanation than they'd received last time. Still, Dimitri was immediately occupied with ordering schedules to be re-written out and re-sent to anyone who had planned to meet with Brigid's representative.

The only moment he'd had to think throughout the day had been shortly after Gustave requested permission to take on all requests that might be related to adjusting Captain Macallister's quarters more to his liking. Dimitri had managed to scrawl out a rather quick pros-and-cons list on the back of a menu memo before being invited to an extremely uncomfortable diplomatic tea with Claribel von Aegir, the foremost political power among the formerly Adrestian provinces represented in court.

(It was uncomfortable, perhaps, because she was nothing less than composed and civil, even knowing that Dimitri's assault of the Myrddin Bridge had resulted in her older brother's death. Doubly uncomfortable for Dimitri, however, because it seemed she _didn't_ know that Dimitri personally struck the blow that killed him.)

He'd had a particularly difficult moment after that—in retrospect, Dimitri wasn't quite sure how much of it he actually remembered—but he'd done his best, he thought, to avoid tumbling back into the mindset he'd been in at _Myrddin_.

Preoccupied by the attempt to do something, anything, that wasn't ruminating on his past throes of destruction—the reckless, merciless arc of his lance—the thrum of pulsating blood within his veins—the too-vivid illusion of Dedue in sun-gleaming armor haunting the corner of his vision just before he'd realized that the half-solid, haloed spectre was mortal flesh after all—, he couldn't seem to make himself focus on more than the merest details of his surroundings, the vague shuffle of his own feet.

It wasn't until Gustave interrupted his reverie that he realized he'd wandered his way into the castle greenhouses; that he was close to an hour late for a meeting with House Dominic, and on the verge of being late for the subsequent meeting with nearly _all_ the visitors of houses formerly belonging to Leicester.

Though Dimitri had set aside an hour or two that afternoon to review some necessary paperwork, he was obliged to delay those plans until after the diplomatic obligations that dominated his evening. With the bulk of his most important talking-points and summarized laws out of the way, it was well past midnight, now... just a few minutes into the second day of the methodology he'd discovered a mere two nights prior.

Surely, he thought, those first two days were not so terribly different that he should have to leave much time between the two. He rubbed at his eye and, lighting an additional candle, shuffled through the papers that littered his desk until he found the list of pros and cons he'd composed earlier that day—yesterday, technically.

Was it love that lay sheltered in his heart, hidden from the rest of the world? Undoubtedly yes. Foremost among the positives of simply informing Dedue of his feelings was perhaps relief from the discomfort of secrecy. Did Dedue not deserve to know how dearly he was loved? Certainly, addressing Dimitri's feelings was unlikely to affect any actual change in their friendship; if Dedue were to turn down the request of courtship, Dimitri would simply lay the last of his hopes to rest and attempt to carry on. After the... after everything that had happened the last few months at the Officer's Academy, up until the Battle at Gronder Field... it simply seemed unreasonable that an unrequited love would stand in-between their mutual rapport, now even closer than it had been before the war.

Now that peace had started settling in, approaching the normal rhythms of the court Dimitri remembered from his childhood... now, surely, it was the "right time," whatever that meant. True, the court was not wholly in concord, but there would always be some form of conflict among the noble houses. True, there was still much work he needed to do in order to maintain this tenuous peace, still new. But if not now—when Fódlan had made such strides in recovering from war, when Duscur was at last its own nation once more—if not now, then when?

But still, doubt lingered in Dimitri's mind; his gloved hand traced the single point he'd written under the column of the negatives. Would the lingering pressure of an old sense of duty place undue pressure on Dedue to accept his feelings? Whether or not he could truly, genuinely woo Dedue's heart was at the crux of the matter; it was the only question that yet held him back.

And so, he supposed, the results of his first day had led him exactly to the query of the second: did he actually have a chance?

Perhaps that had been by design, Dimitri thought; heartened, he turned back to the page. Unfortunately, the article solved no more mysteries on its own.

Yes, it was true that Dedue wasn't precisely advertising that he was courting anyone at present... but, then again, Dimitri was well aware that Dedue tended to prefer privacy in general. Even if he genuinely lacked an interest in anyone else, that could just as easily indicate disinterest in romance altogether. To be certain, Dedue sometimes touched his arms as an emphatic gesture or brushed by him in the halls... but that seemed likely to be the result of their days in battle together, the care with which Dedue had so often seen to his wellbeing in the wake of a difficult fight.

But surely it couldn't just be his imagination that he and Dedue had made eye-contact over the breakfast table just the morning prior, even despite the two dozen sundry courtiers between them? Dimitri shut his eye, the flickering lighting and wavering text only worsening his extant headache. No—his mind had played enough tricks on his vision that he wasn't sure he could quite trust _that_ to be his sole defining proof.

By the article's methodology, he would need to take further action on the morrow. With that plan in mind, Dimitri cast his glance towards the room's only clock: if he tried to go to bed now, he might actually stand a chance at a few hours' sleep.

* * *

First thing on the morrow, Dimitri ventured forth into the castle stables in search of the "mutual friend" that his article had cited as a last-resort source. Sylvain, who had fought side-by-side with both of them in the thick of battle, had come to mind almost immediately.

(Never mind that it had gone terribly the last time he'd taken romance advice from Sylvain. He was looking for information, now, and that was entirely different.)

It was well-known that Lord Gautier was an avid equestrian who, rain or shine, spent the bulk of his early mornings in consultation with his favorite horse: Dark-and-Handsome, the Gloucester magehorse he'd ridden as both a Paladin and Dark Knight. The irascible stallion was known among the stablehands as a terror to stable—an intelligent animal prone to thinking he could outsmart his handlers and start fights with other horses—and so it was taken for granted that Sylvain would personally see to the care of the horse that had saved his life more than once, carrying him through the thick of battle.

(Dimitri had personally never seen Sylvain's horse behave worse than a child's first training-pony. But then again, he'd also never seen the horse handled by anyone but Sylvain.)

In any case, Dimitri had been grossly overdue in paying a visit to his own trustworthy steed, a rather steadier gray mare by the name of Iphegenia. She wasn't quite a warhorse in the same sense that Dark-and-Handsome was, but she had carried his armor and traveling-supplies during those days at war; she was still responsible for carrying him to the field of battle, even if she ultimately remained off it. He attended to her with attempts at quietly imitating her nickering and the apologetic gift of a carrot.

Certainly enough, not five minutes after Dimitri first said hello to his horse, Sylvain arrived at the Royal Stables, bearing a nod of acknowledgement for the stablemaster and a pocketful of sugar-cubes. Dimitri would have assumed those were for his horse, except in the next moment, Sylvain was holding one out towards him, saying, "Morning, Your Majesty. Want one?"

"No, thank you," Dimitri replied. "I brought carrots for Iphegenia..."

"I guess not everyone has a sweet tooth," Sylvain winked, promptly popping it into his own mouth. He offered a second one to his horse, who licked the cube and then its residue from Sylvain's glove. "Looking to ride out this morning?"

"Perhaps, if there's time," Dimitri acknowledged, patting his clothes in search of his schedule-book. "It will have to be shorter than I'd like... I have an appointment with Prince Khalid this morning."

"Yeah, me too—I'm meeting the lovely Senator Shaï in a little under three hours. I'll want to be washed and dressed for that one, so I'll have to cut things a little short over here," Sylvain deftly began the process of tacking up his horse. "Sorry, Handsome. I'll make it up to you tomorrow."

The horse snorted and shook his head, giving off the distinct impression of a mildly-annoyed, long-suffering friend.

"What? C'mon—are you getting a load of this, Your Majesty?" Sylvain clasped a hand to his heart with mock-melodramatic humor. "Not even my loyal steed believes I can meet with a pretty girl without flirting with her."

Dimitri managed a slight smile at that. "Please don't," he said. "Being somewhat newly elected, I am not very familiar with Senator Shaï... but I imagine some would take offense if an official meeting were not sufficiently serious. I'm counting on you."

"I'll behave; didn't I swear it on my vows as a knight?" Sylvain waved his hand with an emphatic gesture. "Anyways, it's a moot point. Dedue said I'm not her type."

" _Dedue_ said that?" Dimitri jolted, mildly surprised that he hadn't even had to breach the subject first.

"I know, right?" Sylvain carried on, clearly paying much more attention to the tension of his horse's bridle than to Dimitri. "He usually isn't so blunt about discouraging me from a girl... it makes a guy wonder."

"Wonder? About what?" Dimitri felt like all of the air had been knocked out of his chest.

"C'mon, even _you_ should know this one... unless you're telling me that you really didn't get any more experience with romance, even after the war was over?" Sylvain wiggled his eyebrows at him.

Dimitri refrained from mentioning that _this conversation_ had resulted from his only attempt to figure out romance in the wake of a war. He furrowed his brow, "Surely you aren't implying that he would try to deter you out of... personal interest...?"

"Well, who knows?" Sylvain shrugged a little. He joked, "I suppose I _am_ pretty irresistible, if I say so myself..."

Dimitri emitted a noise that didn't quite resemble a word. He tried again, "Please don't joke about it; I'm _serious_ , Sylvain. Do you actually think that he—that he is _personally invested_ in the Senator's love life?"

"Ah... no, not really," Sylvain admitted, much to Dimitri's relief. "Not that I've asked him about it, but he hasn't really been acting any different than usual lately. You'd expect most guys to try to up the ante a little if they're out to woo someone, but he hasn't done anything that'd suggest a motive like that... even though they were scheduled to meet for almost three hours yesterday."

Dimitri frowned at him, perplexed. "What makes you so certain?"

"Everyone does something different if they're out to woo—c'mon, that's common sense," Sylvain reached up to pat his horse's neck. "Even this stud over here—"

The horse snorted, looking genuinely irate with his rider. He stamped his hooves impatiently.

"Well, he hasn't been on a date in a while," Sylvain amended. "But you can bet he at least cleaned up a little. You know... more baths, a new haircut, tidier clothes, cologne?"

Dimitri gave him a blank look. "No," he said. "No, I don't know."

"No?" Sylvain seemed momentarily surprised by that. He shook his head, "Nevermind, then. I guess it's not a reliable sign, anyways, since Dedue was pretty fastidious about hygiene and grooming in the first place."

"... that doesn't make any sense," Dimitri replied, now thoroughly confused. "Are you alleging that he's interested in somebody right now, or are you arguing against it??"

"Well, neither—I mean, I'm just speculating based off of one random, off-hand comment. To be honest, I brought it up because I thought you'd be able to update me if anything _was_ going on... I kind of expected you'd know more about his love life than me?" Sylvain finally dusted off the last of the tack and cheerfully offered his horse another sugar-cube. "Speaking of, since when were you so interested in this kind of idle gossip?"

"No, that's—well, I suppose I was just surprised," Dimitri sighed and fed his own patient steed another piece of carrot before guiding her towards the stable's exit on-foot. "You _are_ right in suggesting it's unlike him to mention such a thing. I'm a little concerned..."

"I guess it's probably better to just ask him directly," Sylvain fell into step beside his king. "I don't mean to worry you, Your Majesty, but if he's really troubled by something, you'll probably have better luck getting an answer out of him than I will."

It was true, Dimitri reminded himself, that the unusual comment could just as easily be the product of some external concern regarding the Senator from Duscur or Sylvain's (admittedly careless) comments on flirting with her. Indeed, if it _were_ caused by some larger, overarching diplomatic concern, Dimitri didn't wish to make Dedue feel as if the duties of chancellorship bound him to keep those worries to himself.

Nevertheless, if he was determined to address any issues Dedue felt might arise from Sylvain's dubious humor, it was not impossible that he should also stumble upon the answer he was no longer quite sure he wanted to hear.

Therefore, Dimitri girded himself to secure an answer straight from the horse's mouth: "Yes," he replied. "Yes, I think I might try to see if he has a moment to speak."

* * *

The moment Dimitri was able to scrounge up a spare hour in his schedule, he hastened himself to Dedue's study. Although it was the first day of treaty meetings and policy debates, he thought—with a Chancellor's job largely concerned with familiarizing Duscur's leaders with Fódlan policies, and vice versa—there was a reasonable chance that he was at his desk right now, attempting to review the minutiae of Duscur's current border policy proposal. After all, Fódlan's court planned to discuss in-council the following day.

It should have been fairly routine. Indeed, it might have been more unusual for a king _not_ to inquire after such important international communications. But the public, the political, the private, the deeply personal matters of his heart seemed to blend together in a seamless jumble where each vied for his attention. Should he ask about those matters of business first? Was that the responsibility expected of him?

Perhaps, he told himself, but it would need to wait: if it was true that the statement belied Dedue's personal concerns, those came before all, legal proposals and self-help methodologies aside. If he allowed the conversation to derail itself into politics, they would only spend that time hammering out the myriad interpretations of each proposed wording; the hour would evaporate with little to no avail. Informality, then, would be key.

He knocked. The doorway to Dedue's office opened, revealing the man himself inside.

"Ssssso..." Dimitri awkwardly rested his elbow on the wall next to Dedue's office, attempting to affect a perfectly casual, non-authoritative air. "Do you have a moment to discuss something with me, Dedue?"

The subtle notch between Dedue's brows betrayed his confused skepticism, and Dimitri hurriedly tried to affect an even _more_ casual stance, crossing one leg over the other in what he thought might be the manner of a compatriot merely seeking out a friendly chat. Panicking, he nearly fell over from his clumsy efforts, the stone making an uncomfortably loud noise as Dimitri's elbow came crashing back down upon it.

(Somehow, it always seemed much easier when Sylvain did this.)

"Your Majesty!" Dedue startled. Concern, now, etched itself into every corner of his face. "Are you injured?"

"I'm fine, truly," Dimitri insisted, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. As it was evidently making things worse, he straightened his posture from its uncomfortable slouch. A bit of the wall crumbled away as he removed his elbow from the dent it had left in it.

Dedue looked at the wall for a moment, then gently lowered his hand to the shoulder of that arm. He suggested, "Perhaps we should sit down to speak."

"Yes... yes, of course," Dimitri attempted a reassuring smile. "Shall we use your study, then? Or would you prefer somewhere else?"

"This study... my study will do," Dedue replied, removing his hand from Dimitri's shoulder to stand aside and hold the door open instead. "I apologize for the mess, Your Majesty."

Dimitri followed him into the room, observing the décor for anything that resembled a 'mess.' However, the bookshelves were as tidily organized as they'd been since the room had been requisitioned for the Chancellor of Fódlan-Duscur Relations' official use; the furniture seemed no more worn than it had been when Dimitri last visited. Even the armor that had served Dedue so well stood beside his mantle, polished and gleaming, not a single latch or chain out of its place. If anything, the room seemed unusually bare, even emptier than it had been when they'd first retaken Fhirdiad: Dimitri wondered if his surveyors had failed to inform him of a scarcity of fabric or furniture in the wake of the war.

"Please do not be concerned... nothing seems to be particularly disarrayed?" Dimitri half-questioned.

Dedue lifted a used tea-set from the coffee-table, setting it back on a short tea-cart. "I have not yet tidied from my last visitor," he explained. "I apologize for the mess."

"Ah..." Dimitri realized. "I _did_ pass Gustave in the halls just a minute or two ago. I apologize if I caught you at a bad time..."

"No," Dedue shook his head. "I have no appointments to attend until tomorrow morning. If something is troubling you, Your Majesty, please feel free to speak."

Dimitri frowned briefly, "Dedue, there really isn't any need to use titles here. In truth, I had hoped to ask you about some... some _personal matters_."

A solemn expression crossed Dedue's face. After a moment's thought, he replied, "Gustave informed me that you were located in the greenhouses yesterday... after missing an appointment with Annette."

"That's—" Dimitri started, not expecting that reply. He lowered his gaze, "I didn't think it was particularly worthy of note. I suppose I simply got...lost in my thoughts."

Dedue watched him for a moment, then approached. He rested his hand on Dimitri's shoulder again, his thumb smoothing over it in a brief, instinctive gesture. "Was that what you wished to speak about?"

"No, not really," Dimitri sucked in a breath, unsure how to respond. Dedue's heartfelt concern showed itself in the soft crease of his eyes; Dimitri could not bring himself to leave that earnest entreaty unanswered. He confessed, "It was just... I remembered something about Myrddin. I attempted to take a walk to recover my thoughts a little, but it seems that I lost track of time..."

"I understand," answered Dedue. There was no doubt he did: "The greenhouses are a good place for clearing one's head. The next time you go, please inform me. I will come with you."

"I wouldn't want to interrupt you for something trivial," Dimitri reached a hand across his own chest to lightly rest it atop Dedue's. "However... if you also wished to have a moment to distance yourself from your thoughts..."

"It is better not to be left alone with them," Dedue replied decisively. He gave Dimitri's shoulder a light squeeze before drawing his hand away.

Dimitri keenly felt the loss of that physical presence; he yearned for Dedue's proximity as the sea sought to embrace the shore. His own gaze lingered magnetically on Dedue's storm-colored eyes; he evaluated the circles that restless nights had left just beneath them.

"Speaking of one's thoughts," Dimitri began, "I had a conversation with Sylvain this morning... he happened to bring up a comment you made the other day, regarding, um, the Senate Chair of Duscur's romantic preferences?"

A faint confusion flickered across Dedue's face before realization set in. "Yes," he replied. "Though what concerns that may cause..."

"Well, Sylvain seems to believe that you might have some interest in courting her yourself," Dimitri gave a nervous smile, eager to get that statement out of the way. "However, if you are worried that Lord Gautier's flirtations could potentially lead to a serious diplomatic incident... or if something else about the situation is troubling you..."

Dedue's brow furrowed, but something about the tenseness in his cheek made Dimitri think it wasn't wholly from confusion. "I do not understand, Your Majesty."

Dimitri frowned again at the use of the title, though he forbore commenting on it this time. Instead, he asked softly, "What is it you don't understand? Please, Dedue, if you're worried about something—even if you believe it is trivial—please do not hesitate to tell me."

"I... I do not understand why Sylvain would think I was motivated by interest in courtship," Dedue clarified, his posture stiff and visibly troubled. "If it seemed unclear, I would have stated it more outright. Senator Shaï is... still reluctant to trust Fódlan. The people of Duscur elected her because _they_ are reluctant to trust Fódlan. If his usual manner of address were _misinterpreted_ as an attempt to belittle Duscur's highest ranking official..."

"Ah," Dimitri's eye widened slightly, the full picture coming before him at last. "Yes. Yes, I can see where that might become a problem."

"She might take offense," Dedue said, pausing. After a moment, he added, "She is _likely_ to take offense."

"When I met him this morning, it didn't seem like he was going to disregard your advice," Dimitri hurriedly reassured. "In fact, it sounded like he had been seriously contemplating it for quite some time, and—actually, he even swore to me on his vows of knighthood that he would behave."

Dedue inhaled, then exhaled somewhat more slowly. He replied, "That is good. He does not take those oaths lightly."

Dimitri watched him, then, silent for another moment; he visually traced the pathway that Dedue's eyes took, finding their terminus at the suit of armor. Was it duty that yet dominated his thoughts in that moment, though the pair of them remained alone?

"It seems like the issue of Fódlan-Duscur relations has been weighing on you lately," Dimitri noted. He stepped closer, hesitating for a fraction of a moment before lifting his hand to Dedue's shoulder. "Do you... do you wish that I had not appointed you to such an office?"

Dedue's eyes shot away from the armor towards Dimitri's hand. They softened slightly, and he replied, "The work is complicated—but I do not regret it. As a knight, I vowed to do anything you needed of me... and as a Chancellor, I can better help the people of Duscur alongside those of Fódlan. But if you are dissatisfied with me, Your Majesty..."

"No—quite the opposite, in fact. Considering all the horrible things Duscur experienced during Faerghus' occupation, you've done a commendable job in securing any diplomatic communication _at all_ ," Dimitri insisted, his fingers lightly curling into the fabric of Dedue's cape. He frowned slightly, "If you are seeking constructive criticism, the only thing I find wanting is that you could stand to use my name a little more often. I know there are many reasons why you hesitate to do so, but still..."

"It could cause problems if I seemed overly familiar with the King of Fódlan," Dedue answered—but then, he shook his head and added: "It has also become... a habit. One that has proven difficult to break. Even when I intend to speak as friends... Dimitri. I cannot call you by your name in public, but I will endeavor to do so more when we are alone."

"Thank you, Dedue," Dimitri smiled back, the fondness nestled in his heart coming once more into full bloom. "Would you perhaps be willing to update me on what you have been working on since we last spoke?"

"Of course, Your Majesty," Dedue instantaneously replied. But then he paused, placing his hand over the one that rested on his shoulder. "I mean... of course, _Dimitri_."

He drew away—but only for a moment, returning with a sheaf of notes. They settled in together on the loveseat by the fire, and Dedue began debriefing the most important highlights of his diplomatic discourses: alternating between "Your Majesty" and "Dimitri," the former still somewhat more fluid than the latter.

It was disheartening, in some ways, that Dedue still had some reservations about saying Dimitri's name—but here, as Dedue's arm rested weightily across Dimitri's shoulders while he attempted to read his own looping handwriting; now, as their gazes drew off the page to gravitate together—Dimitri was beginning to believe that perhaps his feelings weren't quite as unrequited as he'd initially thought. He was beginning to believe that the article may have known what it was asking for in assessing separately both minds and hearts.

(He was beginning to believe that he actually stood some kind of _chance_.)


	4. 6 Lone Moon, 1190

**Day 3: Put your best self forward.**

Before leaving your room today, primp until you look (and feel) your best!

While focusing on your appearance may initially seem like a shallow pursuit, studies suggest that when you look your best, your confidence increases. Investing in the way you look won't just increase the odds that he notices your physical attractiveness, but it can also help him see you in a newer, more confident light!

If you're having trouble getting started, look at yourself in the mirror and ask yourself: is this the best version of me I can be? Is your hair styled in a way you find attractive? If you wear makeup, do you like the way it looks? Don't go out to buy anything new, but find an outfit that suits you well, and make sure to be attentive to your hygiene.

One failsafe tip is to apply just a touch of your favorite perfume oil or cologne to the pulse points at your neck or wrists. Whether you find the scent relaxing or energizing, you'll be carrying a hint of positivity around with you all day. (And, of course, if your guy catches on? He'll be dreaming of you for weeks to come!)

6 Lone Moon, 1190

In the dim firelight of his chambers at dawn, Dimitri squinted at the pamphlet with his good eye, still not quite awake. He put down the papers, briefly, to stoke the fireplace back from its low embers—to light a candle from the faint heat remaining.

He lifted the pamphlet again. He frowned.

"Put your best self forward," he murmured out loud, double-checking that he hadn't misread it. "Before leaving your room today, primp until you look and feel your best?"

Was this what Sylvain had meant yesterday, when he'd suggested that most people did something different when they were—in his own words— _out to woo_?

Admittedly, Dimitri hadn't read the article too closely on his first skim-through; he still wasn't fully sure where to begin. Even the article's recommendation... it still seemed dubiously helpful at best. His finger trailed down the page, seeking out that line of advice: _If you're having trouble getting started, look at yourself in the mirror_.

Dimitri cast a sideways glance to the mirror that stood on the opposite side of the room. He wasn't sure of the last time he had used it, if ever; he thought it might have lain forgotten beneath its gauzy, protective shroud since its purchase three years ago.

Memory came to him unbidden in that moment. Dimitri was suddenly reminded that, almost the very day he'd moved into the royal chambers, he'd shattered the mirror his father once used.

It had been midnight, then, and he'd been exhausted from his return to the castle and all the politicking that came hand-in-hand with rebuilding. As he'd turned to close the door to his bedchambers, from the corner of his eye, at that angle—from the minor flaw in its silvered glass—for one awful moment, it was King Lambert who stood within that oaken frame, startling Dimitri with a sharp, half-garbled rebuke.

Though that image had been but a shadow of the phantoms that once relentlessly tormented him, it was enough. Dimitri was so badly startled that he'd tripped against the wardrobe, thrusting his arm out in a vain attempt to catch himself. His crest had activated; his hand plunged straight through the mirror—all of it, both the glass and its frame—smashing it with the subsequent fall. He distinctly remembered laying on the floor in a pile of splintered wood and broken glass, momentarily too stunned to move.

But yet, alongside that memory, Dimitri seemed to recall that Dedue had insisted on having the first night-watch outside the king's chambers; that he had been awakened out of that shock by the sound of the door crashing open and Dedue's urgent, panicked cry: "Dimitri! Are you hurt?"

He'd been so pleased that Dedue had _said his name_ that, for a moment, he quite forgot everything else. How wonderful it would be if Dedue could say it _always_ —not by accident or very deliberately out of others' earshot, but simply because he _could_.

At that thought, a slight grin broke out on Dimitri's lips. Surely, at least, it wouldn't hurt to try?

"Well," he reasoned to himself, inspecting the pamphlet once more. "I suppose, if I dislike it, I can just put the dust-covers back on."

That being decided, he removed the mirror from its shroud—careful, lest he mistakenly break it through improper handling. He peeled the outermost layer of protective fabric from the mirror, bunching it up over one side before pulling it from the rest. The gauzier layer underneath, he unhooked from where it'd been caught on the mirror's ornamental carvings. Rather than risk destroying the frame in an attempt to dislodge it, he pushed the fabric over the reflective surface and let it hang from the back.

When the full reflective surface came into sight, it was almost anticlimactic: Dimitri blinked. So did his reflection, if a bit more dustily.

_Just a man after all_ , he thought, half-relieved and half-disappointed. Somehow, he'd expected a little—more, perhaps?— _something else_ from a king.

Even not accounting for the fact he'd yet to change from his nightclothes or even put on his eyepatch, Dimitri could admit that his appearance was far from being at its best.

It had been weeks since he'd last washed his hair; possibly months since he'd last had it cut. Recalling the time he'd attempted to cut his own hair just after the war—and also recalling that Felix, who had miraculously fixed it last time, wouldn't be arriving for another four days—Dimitri made the decision to leave it be, for now, and maybe try to do something about it after he was clean.

Speaking of... Dimitri frowned. Counting back on his fingers, he tried to remember how many days it had been since his last bath. Was it five days ago? Maybe six? All he remembered was that, after a morning ride, Sylvain had not-quite-subtly hinted that it would be unwise to attend to the next diplomatic planning council while still smelling of horse—proceeding to stop a maidservant and, on the king's behalf, request for hot water to be sent to the royal bathing-chambers.

But then... that meant it would have had to have been the last time Dimitri had gone riding in the mornings, and he'd been so overdue in saying hello to Iphegenia when he'd visited the day prior...

It quite suddenly occurred to him that he'd only cursorily wiped his hands and face after going out riding the day before. Dimitri abruptly lifted his nightshirt and inhaled, trying to figure out if he _still_ smelled more like the stables than the castle, but he couldn't _quite_ tell: while considerably stronger than his sense of taste, his sense of smell was somewhat less sensitive than it had been when he was a child.

"Very well," he acknowledged to his unkingly mirror image. "I suppose a bath is in order."

Dimitri's reflection copied his gesture, as if to ask: _et tu, brute?_

With a shake of his head, Dimitri covered the mirror once more, pulling the gauzy underlayer back over the reflective surface and throwing the dust cover over _that_ , careless and abrupt. He coughed and waved a hand, attempting to clear the air as the gesture kicked up dust that had lain undisturbed for three years—but made it out of his bedchambers without further incident. He tossed on the first dressing-gown he could find and rapped on the interior of his own apartment door, lest he find his guards less than fully prepared.

"Please have somebody send hot water to my chambers," he said. "I believe I would like a bath this morning."

* * *

Dimitri had never considered himself someone to be particularly invested in his nightclothes, but as he shed them to bathe, he was always struck by the canvas of marks that crossed his skin.

Attempting to banish them from his vision, he slipped into the bathtub, sinking down nearly to his neck. Still, Dimitri was too tall to quite fit into the tub; his knees yet emerged from the water like two leviathans rising from the deep. The crisscrossed lines of scar tissue over one, from a scrape with a swordsman—a starburst on the other, from an arrow that had narrowly missed the joint itself—Dimitri sat up straighter, sending both back beneath the waters.

In the hope that someone was still manning the furnace below, his fingers yanked at the pulley within arm's reach. The bathing-chamber cistern obligingly filled with hot water, a certain sign that one of the castle staff was still dutifully manning the complex system of pipes and heaters that they'd installed an age ago: it was the same infrastructure that had, once upon a time, saved Fhirdiad from plague.

Remembering exactly _who_ had invented that system, Dimitri plunged a bucket into the cistern and promptly dumped it over his head. Cornelia, he thought bitterly, had rendered it nigh impossible to efface her influence from Fódlan through these means alone.

He scrubbed the bar of soap against a washcloth, attempting to clean swiftly and get this over with.

He washed his face, mindful of the tissue surrounding his blinded right eye; he scrubbed over his neck, and after a moment's thought, pushed his hair aside and roughly went over the backs of his ears. His shoulders, his forearms—Gronder, Enbarr, Garreg Mach—his ankles and shins and sides, Ailell and Myriddin—his chest, and Fhirdiad, Fhirdiad, Fhirdiad in its lunar-crescent arcs. All of Fódlan seemed to be mapped on his body, both the continent and its king left scarred by war. Faded though those injuries might be, the markings would evermore remain—

Dimitri groaned vaguely and plunged his face beneath the surface of the water, displacing the suds that thereupon lay. He came back up momentarily, and shaking his head—droplets of water splattering away, onto the floor—no, it would benefit no one to keep pursuing that line of thought. Half frustrated by the pale markings and equally frustrated with himself, Dimitri rubbed the bar of soap more vigorously into the washcloth, the waxy substance crumbling beneath that force.

He returned the soap to its place, intent on cleaning—"Only cleaning, this time," he promised himself, trying to ward away the uneasy silence of his ablutions.

Nobody answered. Satisfied, Dimitri brought the washcloth to his skin once more, determined to put aside, for now, the manifold consequences of his actions. There was still one scar that he was proud to bear: one he'd earned not for the sake of vengeance or the sake of the Kingdom, but for the person he'd come to love. Here, at least, Dimitri could be glad of the weapon that marked his flesh because, in doing so, an irreplaceable life had been spared.

Through the washcloth, Dimitri traced the raised outline that formed a ridge across his back. He smiled.

* * *

Upon surmounting the colossal undertaking of The Bath, Dimitri thought that the remainder of the article's advice didn't seem quite so bad.

Drying his hair was, as ever, a challenge—though not moreso than attempting to detangle it. He scowled as an errant lock refused to stay out of his face; he attempted to fix it briefly before giving up and deciding to tie back his hair in a style the Professor had once shown him. On, then, went an eyepatch: a particularly nice dark blue one with white stitching. It had been a gift from Mercedes after one of their sewing lessons.

Clothing himself was the easier part, though he'd somewhat waffled over which articles of ornamental court-armor he preferred to wear. He'd ultimately settled on his favorite decorative spaulders, though their sleek design rendered them perhaps a little too casual for the formal court meetings of the day.

And then... Dimitri snuck a look back at the article, just to make sure he fully understood its "failsafe tip." He seemed to remember that someone had gifted him some cologne, once—perhaps a diplomatic gift during his coronation, some three years ago? Certainly enough, he'd found the vial after a brief search through his sitting-room shelves, hidden behind a pile of spare candlesticks.

Dimitri was reasonably sure he'd never opened it, not even when he'd first received it. Attempting to discern what it was or what it smelled like from the bottle alone was a moot point; the ink of the pasted-on paper label had faded unevenly, and only a handful of scattered Almyran letters were still legible.

He uncorked the vial and gave it a cautious sniff.

It... wasn't bad, actually. A bit like chamomile in its herbal sweetness, but combined with some kind of—spice? dirt??—some kind of earthy _something_ , whatever it was. Fairly neutral and quite subtle, but he found that it rather agreed with him. Part of Dimitri wondered if the substance was drinkable... but, no, he was getting distracted.

Deciding to ask after the edibility of cologne at a later date, he followed the article's instructions, applying a small amount of the liquid to all suggested surfaces. Carefully, he re-corked the vial, praying that it wouldn't break beneath his fingers' pressure: but it held.

Thus satisfied that the task had been completed without incident, Dimitri gave a small exhale of relief. Then, gathering his notes, finally stepped out of his rooms that morning. Like clockwork, he met with Dedue in the hall outside the royal apartment: their custom on nearly every morning preceding a day of court-debates.

(It was not unexpected. When he'd agreed to serve as Chancellor, Dedue had vacated a room among the royal guards' dormitories in favor of the apartment nearest Dimitri's: the same apartment that had housed Rodrigue Fraldarius in King Lambert's day; the same that had housed Klaus I's favorite middle son.)

"Good morning, Dedue," Dimitri began. Perhaps a bit embarrassed that, instead of reviewing papers as he usually did, he'd spent his time so... unproductively, he added, "I hope I did not keep you waiting too long?"

"No," replied Dedue, a note of something unreadable in his expression. "I was also... running late."

Now more worried that his momentary negligence had caused him to miss something important in the day's proposals, Dimitri questioned urgently, "Were you troubled by a passage that we did not discuss yesterday? Please, speak freely."

"No," Dedue repeated—and smiled slightly, confused but pleased. "... I'm glad that you have been taking care of yourself."

"Hm?" Dimitri hesitated slightly, not sure where that statement had come from. Nevertheless, he was glad to see a smile on Dedue's face, however little he understood the reason. He smiled back.

(One of their guards stifled a giggle; another coughed politely into a gauntleted hand.)

Dedue shook his head and stated, without further explanation, "Your hair looks nice this morning, Your Majesty."

Dimitri felt heat rise to his face; he couldn't help but notice his heart flutter at that compliment. "Thank you," he managed to choke out awkwardly. "You too."

Somewhat more bemused, Dedue lifted an eyebrow at him, "Shall we have breakfast, Your Majesty?"

"Oh! Right, yes, breakfast. Of course," Dimitri replied, flustered badly and trying to recover from it. He cleared his throat in what he hoped would be a settling gesture. "Yes, let's go."

Attempting to dispel his embarrassment, he began to walk in the direction of the kitchen, Dedue falling into step beside him stride-for-stride—their guard following perhaps but two strides behind. They arrived at the doors of the kitchen like a pair of stableboys breaking fast at dawn, rather than the King and his most valued advisor seeking an early meal.

Still, before going in, Dimitri paused: noting, perhaps, that Dedue's brow had only furrowed further in perplexion. He stopped where he stood and, drawing a bit closer so that Dedue could hear him over the kitchen's background bustle, he asked, "Dedue, are you truly positive that nothing is bothering you? I know it can be somewhat nerve-wracking to have to present a proposal before the court, so if there is anything—anything at all you might be worried about—"

"No," Dedue answered insistently. "Please do not worry I will be unequal to my responsibility. I am prepared, with regards to the border policy."

"It never crossed my mind that you would not be," Dimitri fervently hoped he sounded reassuring. "You seemed to have a very thorough understanding of the proposed policy yesterday afternoon, and you've been working so hard—doing so well—with establishing communication between Duscur and Fódlan."

And because he _knew_ it was coming, Dedue inquired, "But?"

"It is just... I am concerned, because that is your pensive expression," Dimitri replied, feeling a little ridiculous to have drawn such conjectures based on a setting of lips, a crease of brows. " _Is there_ something on your mind?"

That statement, at least, elicited a slight chuckle from Dedue. He answered, "Something has been bothering me this morning. But it is unimportant."

"Still," Dimitri repeated, because if bore repeating: "Still, even if you think it is a trivial matter... if it is something you wish to talk about, I will always listen."

"It's ridiculous," Dedue reiterated, shutting his eyes briefly. "But... I did have a question."

"Yes?" Dimitri encouraged.

"Your Majesty," said Dedue after a moment. He hesitated again and then asked, half-incredulous, "Are you wearing _cologne_?"

**Author's Note:**

> The methodology of the (fictional) article "How To Make Him Fall For You In A Fortnight" takes inspiration from the following sources:
> 
>   * [_Cosmopolitan_ , "How to Get a Guy to Like You"](https://www.cosmopolitan.com/sex-love/confessions/advice/g2633/how-to-get-a-guy-to-like-you/)
>   * [_Cosmopolitan_ (UK), "12 Steps to Make Someone Fall In Love"](https://www.cosmopolitan.com/uk/love-sex/sex/tips/g558/12-steps-make-him-love-you/)
>   * [_Elite Daily_ , "The Only 2 Times You Should Tell Your BFF You're In Love With Them"](https://www.elitedaily.com/dating/tell-your-bff-you-love-them/1551463)
>   * [_Failure to Launch_ (2006)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Failure_to_Launch)
>   * [_WikiHow_ , "Tell Your Best Friend You 'Like-Like' Them"](https://www.wikihow.com/Tell-Your-Best-Friend-You-%22Like-Like%22-Them)
>   * [_WikiHow_ , "Make a Man Fall in Love With You"](https://www.wikihow.com/Make-a-Man-Fall-in-Love-with-You)
> 

> 
> The source coding for the workskins in this fic are from [these](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11549178/chapters/25935135) [tutorials.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15768186)


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